The Fragile Wall
by LCFC
Summary: Dean Watched Sam Sleep  Spoilers up to 6.11


Dean watched Sam sleep.

When they were younger he had always watched over his little brother, watched Sam's eyelids twitch, seen the expressions on his face. It had been a while but then – since Sam's return – it had been a while since Sam had actually slept and, despite his worries, Dean was enjoying the sensation of protecting his little brother again.

Sam hadn't opened his eyes since Death had shoved the sparkling object that was his soul back in his body once more. Sam had screamed, protested and begged Dean not to force his soul back but Dean had ignored his brother's pleas. As far as he was concerned, the man – the thing – he had been hunting with these past months was not and never had been, his baby brother and Dean didn't listen to any of the lies that 'that' Sam had told.

Now though, as he sat beside his brother, still handcuffed, still prisoner in Bobby's panic room, he began to have some doubts. Perhaps that 'other' Sam had been right; perhaps he shouldn't have done this. He just wanted his brother back, his Sammy and, selfishly, he had ignored anyone else's wants and just concentrated on his own. He sighed and stared down at his brother, sleeping so deeply, no eyelid movements, no little moans and whimpers, nothing but the rise and fall of his broad chest to tell if he were alive or not. He sighed and brushed greasy chestnut hair from Sam's forehead, fingers lingering as they tangled in his brother's too long tresses. He wished that Sam would wake, prayed that Sam would wake and be his brother again. He didn't want Cas to be right; he didn't want his Sammy to be a drooling idiot, to suffer intense physic pain. Biting his lip hard he sat back on his chair by Sam's bed and tried to relax. The guy hadn't slept for a fucking year; he was bound to be tired wasn't he?

Hazel eyes, slanted as a cats, open slowly and Dean almost falls out of his chair as he hears a gruff voice say, softly,

"Dean?"

And Sammy sounds so lost, so frightened, like a little boy who had lost his way, like the eight year old that found out monsters were real, like the twenty-two year old whose girlfriend died screaming on the ceiling.

"Dean…" Sam's voice was low, scared, confused, "Dean – what happened to me?"

And for a moment Dean is transported back nearly four years to a grimy cabin in the wilds of nowhere, to his brother pale but alive, the fatal stab wound on his back nothing but a scar now.

"It's ok Sammy," and he almost falls of the chair in his eagerness to be near to Sam, in his eagerness to touch, to examine, to make sure, "its ok."

Sam frowns, a dent between his eyebrows, his gaze confused.

"I remember waking up in the graveyard and I remember the rain on my face," Sam shudders, "our grandfather," his voice is hoarse, "and cousins – I – you were with Lisa, Dean, and I drew you back in."

"Sammy," Dean gets his hands around Sam's lean face and strokes shaking thumbs down over his cheekbones. Sam's skin is wet and his eyes are overflowing and Dean knows, he knows that this is HIS Sam that his brother is back.

He undoes the handcuffs and helps Sam to his feet; Sam wobbles and puts his arm around Dean's shoulder both for support and reassurance. Sam doesn't seem to be able to stop talking and each word that comes out of his mouth makes Dean shudder, makes Dean's own eyes burn.

"I – that vampire – it – I let him turn you and we worked for Crowley – I bit open my own flesh to draw a Devil's Trap and the women – fuck Dean – I used them."

"It doesn't matter Sammy," Dean shushes him finally, not wanting to hear anymore, not wanting Sam to start itching, to start scratching before the wall has even settled, "it wasn't you."

"He's gone," Sam says and he sounds both relieved and regretful.

"Yeah Sammy," Dean holds his brother up and steers him towards the door, "he's gone."

"He was a good hunter," Sam looks at him, eyes wide and bright, "the best."

"It wasn't you," Dean repeats and Sam leans into him, a heavy weight, warm, alive, here. "It wasn't you."

Sam nods but not before Dean sees something he never expected to see, never wanted to see, never wants to see again.

He sees regret…

"Come on," he knows his voice is falsely jolly; he knows that this is not the end of everything but simply another beginning, "you must be fucking starving."

"I could eat," Sam says and his smile, if a little hesitant, is genuine enough, "and I could use a beer too."

"Bobby's waiting," Dean hauls Sam up the stairs and shuts the door on the panic room – again – hoping and praying (to whoever is listening) that he will never have to lock his brother in there again, praying that neither of them end up in there again.

And Sam looks at him with weary eyes, knowing that there will be holy water in the beer, silver knives to cut his meat, salt rings and devil's traps, so many tests to pass before he can rest.

"Yeah," he says on a sigh, "Bobby's waiting."

And they step through the door leaning on each other, a fragile unification, together again, the two of them against – not only the world – but anything else that God or whoever decides to throw at them.

And the wall – for now – is stable…

End


End file.
